It was six in the afternoon in the eastern suburbs of Rome. At church, Christians were listening attentively to the priest as he celebrated the mass of the Ascension, honouring Jesus’ ascent into heaven. The faithful had just taken communion, and the priest sat back in his chair, his hands joined in prayer. He asked the congregation to rise as he said the blessing: “Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.” At this, the priest left the church to greet the families on the steps.
As this was going on, Graziano and Paolo watched from around the corner of the church as the parishioners filed out. They nodded to one another. It would soon be time. Each man carried a small machine gun in the folds of his leather jacket. They had been given orders from the boss of La Cosa Nostra, Matteo Messina Denaro, a man who once boasted, “I have filled a cemetery all on my own.” Matteo Messina Denaro was a phantom; the most wanted man in all of Italy, yet somehow he was everywhere. How could it be that he evaded capture? He drove a Porsche, wore an eye-watering Rolex and gold-rimmed glasses. He slung thick chains around his neck to lure young women. He was a merciless playboy in a silk Armani suit. In hushed voices, people said that he had fathered an illegitimate child, though La Cosa Nostra was a highly conservative outfit. The mafioso lived above the law, even that of his own Cosa Nostra. He had made himself feared through ruthless violence. They said that he had once killed fifty people in one fell swoop. They said he had gunned down a pregnant woman, and that his vengeance was swift.
In his sacristy, the priest removed his vestments and adjusted his collar. He was preparing to visit judge Falcone, a powerful and respected magistrate. He rummaged among a bag of papers, searching for the file on Matteo Messina Denaro. He found it, and opened it to check everything was in order. On the first page, he read: “Life imprisonment for Matteo Messina Denaro.” He returned the file to his satchel and left the church, glancing furtively around him. There was no-one. The families were now at home, breaking bread and celebrating the Lord’s Day in peace. The priest murmured a prayer and made the sign of the cross. He was afraid. He knew that Matteo Messina Denaro had eyes everywhere. As he opened the door of his Fiat 500, he spied two men behind him. Where had they come from? Paolo smiled at him, and said: “You shall perish in hell.” The priest clambered into his car and slammed the door, turning the key with a trembling hand. But it was too late. Bullets shattered the windshield and tore through the metalwork, peppering every inch of the little Fiat.
The gunfire stopped. Graziano opened the door and left a letter with a red rose. It was addressed to judge Falcone, from Matteo Messina Denaro.
The priest’s body was unrecognizable, bathed in its own blood. The Fiat was full of holes. The mafia had once again reared its head in the hallowed streets of Rome; the phantom had struck again.
Alan Alfredo Geday